


The Pathologist's Tail

by dietplainlite



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 05:03:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7999594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Molly's first day off in weeks, and she's got an unexpected shadow as she goes about her day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pathologist's Tail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justmindy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justmindy/gifts).



She sits in a small park, eating the sandwich she’d packed this morning.  Her tea—a small indulgence from a shop—sits beside her on the bench. The frugality feels good.  She’s spent less than three quid on lunch instead of the usual ten. There’s no particular reason for her to be thrifty, but it makes her think of her father’s lessons, and she feels closer to him. 

A crust of bread falls to the ground and with a briefly terrifying flutter of wings, dozens of pigeons descend on the scene, fighting over the small scrap.  She resists the urge to kick them away.  They mean no harm and will disperse as soon as they realize there is not enough bread for fifty of them to share.

In a few more bites the sandwich is gone, and she digs a mandarin out of her bag.  She holds it in her hand for a moment, running her thumb across its smooth skin and hoping it will be sweet.  She wonders for a moment if the pigeons would react the same way to dropped piece of the peel as they had to her bread crust.  Based on how many of them have moved on to scavenging a nearby bin, she guesses they would be enthusiastic.  But she doesn’t want to rile them up again.  They could hurt each other. And what if it was bad for them?

As she peels the small fruit, a few of the birds eye her, but she carefully puts the rind in her sandwich bag.  After she’s eaten the fruit, she stands, takes her tea, and drops her rubbish into a bin on her way out of the park.

At first she’s not sure if Sherlock will follow her, but he does.  He’s been tailing her since this morning, not even bothering to disguise himself, as if she’s so unobservant that she wouldn’t recognize his figure slashing through crowds in that ridiculous (sexy) coat.

It’s her first day off in two weeks, and her original plan had been to spend the day inside catching up on television, but after a couple of hours she’d grown restless. After two weeks cooped up in the lab and morgue she needed to be outside no matter how exhausted she felt, or how shit the weather. So she’d packed a lunch, headed into the city and wandered aimlessly all morning, stopping into shops and galleries when the mood struck. She’d first noticed Sherlock when she came out of a clothing boutique on Lamb’s Conduit Street.  She thought about saying hello, but he walked past without seeing her.  She shrugged it off, figuring he must be on a case and caught up in his thoughts, and headed in the opposite direction.

Then she’d seen him again, casually examining the fruit outside a food shop as she came out of a book store.

When she settled in at the park, he had actually hidden behind a tree.  She thought about calling him out right then, but figured it would be more fun to let it go on.

But what on earth was he doing? 

True, she hadn’t had much time to help him with his work lately, but surely he would just text her if he needed anything?  But there are no missed calls or new messages on her phone.  Frustrated, she ducks into a smoke shop and watches out the window as he walks past, hands in his front coat pockets.

She’s had enough.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she says, stepping out onto the pavement again.

He stops.  Turns around. Plasters a demented smile on his face. “Molly Hooper!  Hello!” he says, too loudly. 

 “What the hell have you been doing?”

“Well, I’m on a case, tracking the last movements of my client’s brother before he disappeared.”

“Oh, and this client’s brother’s movements happen to coincide with everything I’ve done this morning?”

“Hmm?” he says, turning and continuing on his way.  She follows, taking two steps for his every one.

“You’ve been following me at least since Lamb’s Conduit Street and probably before that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Molly grabs his arm. “Sherlock, stop lying to me.”

He stops and faces her. People stream past them as they stand facing each other. 

Sherlock looks at her, then away, and down.  His fingers twitch as if they’re aching for a cigarette to hold.

“You weren’t at work.”

“I was there for fourteen days straight. If you need anything, Ashok is in today and they’ll tolerate you as long as you keep to yourself.”

Sherlock frowns.  “Fourteen days? But weren’t you ill?”

“Yes, then everyone else was. So I covered.”

“You look awful.”

“Well thank you, Sherlock.  Not everyone can look like they’ve just been taken new out of the package every day.”  She shoulders her bag, which has begun to feel like it weighs forty pounds, and pushes past him.

“Molly,” he says, following.  “I didn’t mean it like _that_. Of course you look beautiful.  But you also look tired.  A bit pale.  That’s all.  Let me take your bag.

“What?”

“You look as if you’re about to fall over,” he says. He takes her purse, then steps to the kerb to hail a taxi.

Molly stares at him.  She’s known men who, if you asked them to hold your purse for ten seconds while you tied your shoe, would hold it at arm’s length as though it were literally filled with dog shit and spiders.  And there Sherlock Holmes stands, casually holding her bag as though he does it every day.

When a cab pulls up she shakes her head.  “Sherlock, I live in Beckton I can’t afford to take a taxi home.”

“Who said you’re going home?”

“I’ve already had lunch, as you know, since you just watched me eat it.”

“Yes,” he says as he bundles her into the cab and slides in beside her. “But that sad ham sandwich won’t do.  No, Molly, you need some of Mrs. Hudson’s chicken soup.” 

“Oh she keeps it on hand just in case someone is ill?”

“Of course not; it won’t keep. But she adores you so she’ll make some right up.”

“Chicken soup isn’t something you just make right up.”

“Hmm.  Well, anyway, what else has she got going on? I assure you, Molly, she will be grateful for the opportunity to interact with young people.”

Molly is too tired to argue, and the drizzle has turned into a proper rain. Besides, the idea of being fussed over and eating homemade soup sounds heavenly, so she settles back, the drumming of the rain on the cab’s roof lulling her into a doze during the short ride, though she takes extra care to lean against the window rather than Sherlock’s shoulder.

They arrive at Sherlock’s flat only to find a cold dinner for Sherlock along with a note saying Mrs. Hudson is at her bridge club. 

“Bridge,” Sherlock sniffs.  “More like high stakes Texas Hold ‘Em. Is it really the second Thursday of the month?”

“Yes,” Molly says, slumping onto the sofa. The flat is damp and cold.  Sherlock turns in a full circle before making a beeline for the cupboards.  He looks through them but finds nothing suitable.  The refrigerator is even more disappointing, judging by the expletives he spits when he opens it.

“Erm, I could always order in?”

Molly nods and Sherlock shoves a wad of takeaway menus at her.  He stands in front of her for a moment, then turns suddenly, steps over the coffee table, and crouches in front of the fireplace.  By the time Molly’s decided on her food order, he’s got the fire blazing, and it’s not long before she feels comfortable shrugging out of her coat.  They sit in silence while they wait for the food (phở for Molly, bánh bao for Sherlock) and Molly drifts off to sleep again, curled up on the sofa.

She wakes up to significantly dimmer light and a steady rain against the windows, warm under a crocheted throw.  Sherlock sits at his microscope, his half eaten food sitting precariously close to a stack of culture dishes.

“How long have I been asleep?” she asks.

“Two and a half hours,” he says, not looking up.  “The delivery person said your food would be fine if we reheat the broth before putting all the other things in.”

“Oh,” she says.  And suddenly it’s a bit too much.  A bit too domestic, all of it.  A bit too much like all the things she used to idly think about. All the things she’s supposed to have gotten over.

“Actually, I should probably go.  The cat will be hungry and I don’t want to impose and—what did you need, anyway?”

“Hmm?”

“You looked for me at work.  But it’s obviously something Ashok can’t help with since you’re still here.”

“Who said I needed anything from you at work?”

“Well, you said—you know what, I’m just going to go.”  She fumbles around trying to get her feet in her shoes but she has to untie them first.  When did she even take the damned things off? Why did she wear lace up boots, anyway? And why had he said earlier that “of course” she looked beautiful?

“You should at least eat first.”

“No.  I’m fine.  And you have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”  He hasn’t gotten up from his chair, just sat back from the microscope, looking at her as though she’s just accused him of eating insects.

“Randomly deciding that my company is worth your time because John’s busy and you’re bored.”

“You think that’s what’s happening?”

She stands up, having finally gotten both of her feet in her boots. “Of course that’s what’s happening!”

He doesn’t say anything, and has the audacity to look hurt.

“So John isn’t busy today?”

“He’s at home with his family.”

“And you needed a fill in.”

“They invited me over and I said no because I—because I realized that as much as I like their company, I hadn’t spent more than a few moments with you in the last two weeks, and I wanted to see you.”  The last part comes out in a rush as he turns back to the microscope and starts fumbling with the dials.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you saying that you…missed me?”

“It would appear so.”

“Oh.”

“So you should stay. And eat. And you can sleep here if you want. It’s getting late.”

“It’s five o’clock.”

He continues peering into the scope.  Molly is becoming suspicious that there’s nothing on that slide.

“Sherlock, I can’t sleep here.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t got anything to wear tomorrow.”

“And you also don’t have to work so it doesn’t matter.  Besides, there are some things here.”

“Janine’s?”

“Janine is at least five inches taller than you and two sizes larger. No. Mary kept some things here when wedding planning was in peak frenzy and there’s also a jumper or two of John’s.”

“I feel like I’m being held hostage.”

“Don’t be silly. Hostages don’t get warm jumpers and fires and takeaway.”

“You’re right, and I’m being a prat. Thank you for taking care of me.”

“It was my pleasure.”

They share a small smile at this, recalling a long ago conversation in a dim hallway.

“I’ll get those clothes,” he says.

 

The rain is coming down in sheets by the time she’s curled up on the sofa in Mary’s yoga pants and John’s jumper, Sherlock’s laptop set up on the table playing an hour long compilation of cat videos. (It had been in Sherlock’s favorites.) 

Every once in a while, a muttered curse comes from the kitchen, where Sherlock is attempting to work quietly at the table.

“Molly,” he says.

“Mmm?”

“The blowfly evidence on this corpse indicates it had been in the field for only twenty-four hours but other indicators put it at longer.”

“How much longer?”

“Thirty-six hours.”

“Blowflies don’t lay eggs at night.”

“Of course. The body was dumped at night.”

“What case is this?”  She doesn’t recall any bodies that were found in a field coming in recently.

“Things have been slow. I’m looking at cold cases. Wherever Fishgate-upon-Humber is, twenty years ago they shared a coroner with five other villages, and he was a GP.”

Molly gets up and joins him at the table.  “Someone was quite the photographer, though. These are excellent photos.”

“Small favors,” Sherlock shrugs.

She sits next to him and starts looking through the autopsy report, such as it was. “Blunt force trauma?” she says.  “This man was so obviously strangled.”  She peers more closely at a photo.  “With a…rolling pin?”

Sherlock takes the photo from her. “Of course. Snuck up behind him and held the rolling pin to his throat.”

A coughing fit takes hold of Molly then, and it’s awhile before she can accept the glass of water that Sherlock offers.

“I’d better rest,” she says. 

“Yes, you’d better, if you want to go to Fishgate-upon-Humber tomorrow morning.”

“What?”

“We’ve got a murderous pie baker to catch.”


End file.
